Brett Halliday - Call for Michael Shayne

He closed the door softly when he went out, as though not to disturb the Arthur Devlin he had left behind — an Arthur Devlin who would waken at his usual hour of seven in the morning and leisurely prepare breakfast in the shining kitchenette and leisurely dress in ample time to reach his insurance office at nine in the morning.

Jack had the ninety-eight dollars ready for him when he walked slowly toward the desk. The young clerk’s eyes were alert, curious, sympathetic. He said, “You needn’t have bothered about the money, Mr. Devlin. You know your credit’s good here any time.”

“That’s quite all right. You know how it is — when you go on a trip you take along big bills. They’re not so bulky.”

“Of course. But—”

“Did you manage the taxi?” Devlin interrupted.

“It’s waiting. The driver just reported and went out.”

“Thanks, Jack,” said Devlin. He went out, leaving the gaping clerk staring at his back.

When the foyer door clicked behind him something clicked in his mind. Henceforth he had to force himself to believe he was a murderer. He had to remember to be careful, wary, watch his every word and action. He was a hunted man. As a disreputably dressed bum he had given one taxi driver the address of the Clairmount Apartments. Now, dressed as a moderately successful business man, he could not give the address of the Argonne. He walked as briskly as his throbbing head permitted, got into the rear seat of the taxi and said, “Corner of Flagler and Northwest Second.”

The driver was a Negro. “Yessuh,” he said, and the cab slid forward smoothly.

Flagler Street was deserted and quiet in the darkness of the hour before dawn. The trip had been made in utter silence, and Devlin leaned forward now to look at the meter. It registered a dollar and a half. When the cab slid to a stop he handed the driver two one-dollar bills, said, “Keep the change.”

“Yessuh. Thank you suh.” He reached back and opened the rear door, his wide mouth spread in a grin.

Devlin got out and the taxi moved away. He stood on the sidewalk for a while. A fierce resentment welled up within him against a circumstance over which he had no control that left him utterly alone at an ungodly hour on a street where he had known only friendliness and companionship. He was sorely tempted to wait, hail another taxi, and go straight back to his apartment.

The throbbing in his temple brought him back to the realization of the thing he had to do, and he began walking up Second Avenue, looking at the numbers on shops and small hotels until he reached a wooden stairway leading up from the sidewalk. The sign over it read: Argonne House.

He climbed the stairs as quietly as he could to a dingy second-floor lobby where a dim light above a desk outlined a crudely lettered sign that read: Ring bell for Manager.

Devlin did not want to see the manager. He wanted, only, to see the occupant or occupants of 209. He wandered down the narrow corridor until he found it. A dusty transom was open above the door to catch the musty, foul air of the hallway.

An overwhelming desire to turn and run away possessed him. He could still go back and tell Tommy he had reconsidered, go back to his apartment at the Clairmount and lie low — and wait.

But his right hand came up and tapped lightly on the door. There was an immediate rustle of sound inside. The lock clicked and the door swung open. The smell of cigarette smoke and perfume and the feel of bare arms around his neck attacked him simultaneously.

“Joey! Oh, Joey, darling!” Her arms were flung about his neck and she put her mouth against his, clinging to his lips. All the strength went out of him. Like a drowning man grasping for a straw, his arms reached out and closed around her supple young body and held tight to keep from falling. His head dropped down and rested against her hair when she stopped kissing him.

After a long time he felt a surge of normalcy spreading through his body, and he lifted his head slowly, wondering how many more shocks he could endure.

Devlin knew now that he was “Joey.” Hence, the dead man must be Skid. And the girl whose arms were around his neck was Marge.

The door was partly open. His right arm tightened around her waist as he half turned and swung the door closed with his left hand.

Marge mistook the movement for passion. She gripped him tighter and said softly, “Oh, Joey — you do love me.”

He patted her and said, “Don’t say anything. I’ve got to think,” and stroked her hair while his eyes roamed around the shabbily furnished sitting-room. The cushions of the wicker couch and chairs were faded and soiled. The edges of a square greenish rug in the center of the floor were frayed, and the lavender striped wall paper was offensive. Through an open door a ceiling light revealed a cramped and disordered bedroom. The bed was unmade, and feminine apparel hung limply over the back of a chair. There was an inner door which he judged led into the bathroom. It was one of those small, three-room affairs dignified by the name of “efficiency apartments” that rented for an outrageous price during the tourist season, but $18 a week was about all it would bring in the summer.

Devlin reached up and pushed the felt hat from his head and let it drop to the floor. His head was beginning to ache again. The room was hot, and the heat of the girl’s body pressed against him sent big drops of perspiration pouring down his face. His arms fell to his sides and he took a step backward.

Marge looked up quickly, then cried, “Joey! You’re hurt. What happened? Where have you been?”

Devlin mumbled something about one question at a time, took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face. His eyes went over her from head to foot as he stood there trying not to stare.

Marge was barefooted. She wore a sheer robe tightly belted around a slim waist. He could see the shoulder strap of a nightgown where the neckline of the robe was pushed aside. Her brown hair tumbled around her shoulders in disarray. He judged her to be in her mid-twenties, yet there was a looseness about her flesh that conveyed an impression of inner laxity.

It was her eyes that caught and held his gaze for a long time. They were black and enormous and strange. Her pupils were so small they appeared to be swallowed up by the iris. Contracted, he thought swiftly, by fear or by some violent emotion which he could only guess at.

She stood uncertainly before him, her mouth lax and pouting. Then her lips quivered and she said, “What’s the matter, Joey? What do you keep looking at me like that for?”

Devlin touched the bruised lump on his head and said, “I keep feeling dizzy and faint. I don’t know how bad it is. I was knocked out at first — and things get all blurred and then they’re clear again.” His body tensed and he took another step backward as though readying himself to open the door and fly from the room. He knew the next few minutes would decide whether he was going to get away with this imposture or whether she would see through it at once.

Marge’s features hardened suddenly and she seemed older than he had guessed. She kept staring at him with her enormous, pupil-less eyes, and he had no idea whether she was bracing herself to submit to some physical or mental cruelty from the man she knew as Joey — or whether she was suppressing some violent emotional upheaval of her own.

She said, “Where have you been since you phoned? You’re wearing different clothes, Joey. You’re acting — cold and strange.” She backed away from him, catching her full lower lip between her teeth, her eyes like round balls of sooty clay.

“I had to get a change of clothes,” he told her harshly. “My others had blood on them,” he went on evenly, watching her, hoping for some clue that would give him an idea of the tone Joey would use. “They had Skid’s blood on them.”